You Are My Sunshine
by bauble123
Summary: Parent!lock AU, inspired completely by shootbadcabbies' artwork. Sherlock hears a gunshot while walking home. When he goes to investigate, he finds a dead mother and a small, desolate boy who doesn't want to be taken away. The only option, he decides, is to adopt the small John Watson. (cue adorableness!)
1. Chapter 1

So this happened because I had writer's block with One More Miracle and wanted to write something other than John/Mary and was, at the same time, trawling through the wonderful artwork of the dazzling Shootbadcabbies. I've wanted to write Kidlock/Parentlock for ages and then I saw a picture and my mind went "yes!" so here it is. All credit to Shootbadcabbies, who came up with the concept, the plot, the inspiration, some dialogue, the whole idea… I literally just put it into words because I can't draw for toffee. Here's the link: post/62290983189/is-this-going-anywhere-who-knows There is more but I have abandoned that (oh, the horror, the horror!). And I've discovered that this will be more artful than One More Miracle – more along the lines of Finding Our Feet in style. Crafted, not slapped, and third person.

You Are My Sunshine (working title)

He heard the shot as he was walking home from the shops, milk in hand. He ran towards it, drawn like a moth to a flame, his mind whirring and excited. A gunshot! Ah, thank God, excitement at last! How long had he been trapped in dull monotony? It felt like eternity. He almost dropped the milk in his frenzy. Thinking hurriedly, he drew out all the information on sound and guns from his mind palace – it should have come from about a street away…

After a minute or so of hurtling down pavement like a madman, coat billowing out ridiculously behind him, he found the place. He knocked on the door. There was no response; he knocked again. Still nothing. This done, he fumbled through his pocket, took out a safety pin and set about picking the lock. It wasn't hard, not for a mind as perfect or hands as dextrous as his. After a second or two of twiddling the pin, there was a click and the door swung neatly open.

Sherlock looked around and pulled his phone from his pocket. There was a body lying on the floor. The corpse was a woman, her long tawny hair streaming out in a pool of blood from where the bullet had pierced her neck. A pretty good shot, that had been, it seemed. He dialled a number. The phone began to ring in his ear – once, twice, three times, and then,

"Sherlock? Is that you?" Lestrade's voice came in slightly fuzzy on the other end of the line.

"Yes. Who else would it be?"

"I don't know. Don't ask that sort of thing. What's wrong? Why are you calling? You don't need bailing out, do you? Because if you do then Mycroft-"

"No, no." Sherlock said, irritably cutting of the inspector in mid-sentence. "There's been a shooting. I'm standing by the body; heard the shot from a couple of streets off."

"Oh." Lestrade sounded surprised. "Well stay where you are. We'll be there in ten minutes. If I arrive and you're not there, Sherlock, I swear…" His voice faded out to Sherlock's mind. He had noticed something else. Something that made this whole situation actually mean something.

"Lestrade," he said. "There's a child."

"What did you say?"

"There's a bo-"

"Don't!" A smaller, higher pitched voice joined the mix. The boy had clutched hold of the fabric of Sherlock's trousers, pulling it. "Please don't let them bring me away!" That, thought Sherlock, was an improper use of the word bring, he really meant take but – wait! What was he thinking? This was a child, a child left to fend for itself. Could he not at least listen to what it had to say? He looked down at the boy.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice returned. "Are you there?"

"I…have to go."

"What? Hey-!" Lestrade began, but too late. Sherlock pressed the end call button and lowered the phone. The child was short and blonde, most likely only about four years old. He was probably just about to start school. He had a snub nose and big, imploring blue eyes, and he was gripping tightly onto a teddy bear. Sherlock stared at him. Damn Lestrade, he thought. He can't do anything to me anyway. And he hoisted the small boy up into his arms and carried him out of the house, putting him down on the pavement. The boy stayed sensibly silent as Sherlock hailed a taxi and put him into it, hopping in beside him and instructing the driver to take them to Baker Street.

The child looked morosely down at his battered teddy bear as they sat in utter quiet in the back of the taxi. Sherlock's phone buzzed. _What are you doing? MH_ read the text. Sherlock looked at it for a moment, thought, and then typed in: _Don't know yet. SH._

The taxi drove onwards.

"No, he's definitely not here." Donovan said.

"No two ways about it," added Anderson. "He's gone."

Lestrade swore.

Sherlock lifted the boy out of the taxi, paid the driver and opened the door of 221B. Mrs Hudson hurried out into the hall as soon as she heard the door go.

"Did you get the milk, Sherlock dear?" she began, and then stopped and stared. "What is _that_?" she asked, her eyes on the child.

"A boy," Sherlock said. "I'd have thought it was obvious."

"Yes, but what are you doing with him?"

"I'm not sure… Adopting him, I think."

"Sherlock! You do say the funniest things sometimes. Who is he? Where did you find him?" Sherlock stepped forward, leaned in and told her. She looked astonished. "Oh! Well, in that case…" she looked at the boy. "He looks like he could do with some food – warm milk and toast would be welcome, I think, and we need to find out his name." She was suddenly in her element. Maternal instincts, I suppose, Sherlock thought, bemused. He turned to the boy.

"Would you like that? Some milk and toast?" The boy nodded his head quickly. Sherlock smiled and lifted him up, carrying him into the kitchen and depositing him on the table. Mrs Hudson pushed down the toaster, poured a mug of milk and put it in the microwave. Sherlock and the boy both watched intently as she took out the milk and buttered the toast, placing them both in front of the child.

"There you are." she smiled, as she put them down. "Now then," she said, kneeling down so she was at the boy's level. "I'm Mrs Hudson, and this is Sherlock. We're very friendly people," It wasn't completely a lie – she was friendly, at least (well, most of the time). "And we only want to help you. Would you like to tell us your name?"

"John." the boy mumbled.

"What's that?" Sherlock said, turning around to look at him.

"My name is John." the boy said, quietly. "John Watson." he paused. "Is mummy going to be okay?"

"We-ell…" Sherlock began.

"She isn't, is she?" the boy said. "But you won't let them bring me away, will you? You can't let them bring me away!" He began to cry, fat tears welling up in the bottoms of his eyes and running down his rounded cheeks, leaving glistening trails in his rosy skin. Sherlock stepped back, aghast.

"If you want to be a good parent to little John here," Mrs Hudson said, in some annoyance. "You had better cuddle him now, and comfort him, Sherlock. It will do you good to show a little emotion for once."

Sherlock leaned awkwardly forward and enveloped John in his arms, wiping away the tears. "There, there." he muttered uncomfortably. John stopped crying and looked up at him. "D-don't worry," Sherlock said, and then, with great conviction, he added, "We'll look after you."

Half an hour later, John was fully fed, contented and dressed in an old t-shirt of Sherlock's which hung loosely and largely about his tiny figure, making him seem lost and stranded in the folds of fabric. Mrs Hudson was struck down at the adorableness. Sherlock gave her a slightly pitying smile, picked John up and carried him up the stairs. After awkwardly fumbling to open the door to his flat, he went in and deposited John in the little bed in the spare room. The boy looked up at him with wide, astounded eyes.

Sherlock was confused. "You sleep here." he said. He'd have thought it was obvious.

"So I can stay?" John asked. "Really?"

"Yes." said Sherlock. "Probably."

John reached up and grasped the kneeling Sherlock around the neck with both arms, embracing him in that all-consuming hug only small children can give, that lets you know that you are the sole important thing in their world. After a couple of minutes, Sherlock looked down at the child, beginning to become uncomfortable. This had to be the longest hug of his life. He prised John's head from his arms and smiled silently. John had fallen asleep, arms around him. He gently lifted John off of him and tucked him up in the bed. Then, because it seemed the right thing to do, he planted a kiss on the boy's blonde down-covered head before making his way back downstairs.


	2. Chapter 2

_Just to note, I do know that the past participle of shoot is shot - baby John doesn't though, bless his little sugar-dusted heart._

Chapter 2: We'l Be A Good Family

He had just come into the kitchen when there was a violent clattering at the door. He got up, overriding Mrs Hudson who immediately sprang to run for the visitor, and sauntered along the hall to pull the door slowly open to reveal an irritated, dripping Lestrade.

"You look," said Sherlock, as the inspector came inside and went about removing his dripping coat. "Like the creature from the black lagoon."

"And the same to you!" Lestrade said curtly, annoyed. "Go to blazes, Sherlock Holmes! The amount of trouble you've put me through doesn't bear thinking about. What in all the seven hells did you think you were doing?"

A head of tawny curls poked out of the kitchen door. "Could you keep your voice down?" said Mrs Hudson in a stage whisper. "You'll wake John up."

The inspector coughed pointedly and looked Sherlock full in the face. "John?" he said, spitting out the syllable as though it were venom.

Sherlock sighed. "I suppose you'd better come and sit down." he consented. Lestrade followed Sherlock into the kitchen, wherein Mrs Hudson bade him sit and handed him a cup of tea.

"What did you do with the child, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, wearily, taking a gulp of his tea, despite the heat (he, like all professional policemen, had developed asbestos taste-buds that allowed him to drink scalding hot liquids that would burn the skin off of anyone else's mouth).

"Brought him home, comforted him, fed him and put him to bed." Sherlock said, plainly, as if he had done nothing out of the ordinary.

Lestrade covered his face with his palm. "Oh _God_…" he muttered, but this was cut short as there was a knock at the door, a loud and insistent rapping. Mrs Hudson jumped up and bustled through, to admit Mycroft into the hall, suit perfectly creased, not a crisp hair out of place, umbrella in hand and disdainfully worried expression on his face. He took a stately seat at the now crowded table.

"Sherlock," he began, raising an eyebrow at his brother, head tilted slightly to one side and a sarcastic smile twitching at the edge of his mouth. "What exactly do you mean by removing a child from a crime scene? You have no legal right to do so and if we are not extremely careful this is going to be looked on as a crime. I can see," he added, looking Lestrade up and down. "That our good friend the Detective Inspector has already had a headache courtesy of your actions, brother mine."

Sherlock scowled. "John didn't want to be taken away." he said. "He was plea-"

He was cut off there by Mycroft's amused smirk and, "John?"

"The kid," Sherlock continued, ignoring his brother. "Was desperate. He really doesn't want to be taken away into care. Mycroft, you're the British government, so do your darling brother a favour and bloody well sort out the adoption papers or I shall tell everybody what Great Aunt Edwina thought about you." Mycroft's face flushed scarlet for a moment before he nodded to his brother.

"Fine." he said, simply, smiling all too widely, his eyes shut in a slightly-too-long-blink. That said, he stood up and left, picking up his umbrella as he did so.

"Well, it looks like that's sorted," Lestrade said, gruffly. "I'd better be going too." And with that, he too vacated the property. Mrs Hudson looked forlornly at the table.

"They didn't even finish their tea." she said.

That night, Sherlock was woken by the sound of someone small crying in the dark, a heart-breaking, sniffling, sobbing sound. He blinked, once, dazedly as his brain fizzled into action and he remembered the evening's events. Then his eyes snapped open, wide as saucers – John! He slipped out of bed and tripped quietly through to the little boy's room.

Opening the door, he found John sitting up in the bed, the covers wrapped around him like a cocoon, crying. Quickly, he switched on the light, went over and looked at the little boy. "What's the matter?" he asked, kneeling down beside the bed.

"I…mummy…" John tried desperately to articulate his feelings, his four year old vocabulary flagging and failing. "She's dead, isn't she? She got shooted, with a gun." Sherlock nodded. "So now I don't – I don't - I don't have a…have a…a mummy anymore."

"No, but you have better things."

John looked up at Sherlock, blue eyes wide with curiosity. "What?" he asked.

"You have a Sherlock – you have me, and I can be…like your uncle."

"Or my daddy?" the boy said, looking excitedly up into Sherlock's face. Sherlock bit his lip – was he really going to enter into this? He looked at the boy, and the child's eyes seemed to size up his soul.

"Y-yes," he said, a little uncertainly. "Yes. I can be your daddy." John beamed and clapped his hands. "And that's not all," Sherlock added. "You have a grandma, too – Mrs Hudson, who will be down here any minute because she heard you crying." The door of the room opened a crack.

"Sherlock? Is John all right?" asked Mrs Hudson, worriedly. Sherlock smiled.

"See, John?" he said. "We'll be a good family, won't we, Hudders?"

Mrs Hudson grinned. "Yes, we will. Now, I'd better be going to bed, as long as he's all right." And she pattered away back to her room. Sherlock looked down at John, who was tugging at his pyjama shirt.

"Are you going to leave me on my own?" John asked, nervously.

"No." Sherlock picked the child up and carried him into his own room, putting him down on the bed. John smiled.

"Mummy always has me in her bed when I'm scared." he explained.

"Well that's all right then, isn't it?" Sherlock replied, happily lying down and pulling the cover over the two of them. In the dark, the small boy put his arms round Sherlock's back, hugging him like a teddy bear. Sherlock smiled, where no-one could see it. John, finally happy and comfortable, gave a sleepy smile, and fell asleep like that. Sherlock, too, eventually drifted off into Morpheus' arms.


End file.
